


Changes

by CommanderBayban



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, The Stranger (BBV Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comfort/Angst, Couch Cuddles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Ficlet, Gen, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:28:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27230488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderBayban/pseuds/CommanderBayban
Summary: Ever since Egan and Saul left through the portal, the possibility of them coming back has haunted Soloman's mind, leaving him in a constant state of distress. Miss Brown tries to console him the best she can.(Set post-"Eye of the Beholder", but if Soloman and Miss Brown reconnected)
Relationships: The Stranger & Miss Brown





	Changes

_“And now, we’re going to add one pinch of salt, but remember: we’re_ cooking _, not doing chemistry—add as much as_ your _dish needs!”_

The sound of clinking pots and pans was drowned out by the overly-exuberant voice of a network chef. Miss Brown propped her head against her hand and folded up her legs so she was squarely taking up the space of one couch cushion.

Cooking was not a skill she had mastered, but it wasn’t one she ever _bothered_ to master in the first place. Being an ex-Protectorate agent of her rank meant that there was no time for 'frivolous activity'. One's time had to be solely dedicated to keeping a close eye on any dissenters.

She tried to stifle a yawn to no avail. This programme was far from the thrilling entertainment she preferred, but as was common with television: there was absolutely nothing to watch. It was between the chef or choosing between five news broadcasts that fill the air with dull, tedious stories about who killed whom or what vapid thing a celebrity said while inebriated.

At least this spicy vegetable dish looked good enough to pilfer. She licked her lips in futile anticipation.

“Yeeauugh!”

From the other side of the couch, Soloman jolted up from his slumber and threw his head into his hands. His breathing was shallow and staggered as it syncopated to the pulse of his bouncing leg.

Miss Brown pressed her lips together into a small frown. Recently, Soloman had had so many nightmares that she couldn’t keep track any longer. They were always about _them_ : the two Preceptors who plucked him from Arcadia in attempts to reprogram his mind and push him back into a life that he had since denounced.

But it had been months since Egan and Saul had returned back to their rightful places, and the Protectorate agents had seemingly disappeared with them. None of them had done so much as send him a postcard, yet Soloman couldn’t help but believe that one day—just as before—everything would spiral downwards once again. Even a casual walk out on the town was met with paranoid scrutinising of every car and every person who walked by. Taking him out fishing seemed to lower his shoulders a bit, but even then the curious, adventurous spark in his eye from their erstwhile gallivants never seemed to flicker back.

“Not everyone is out to get you,” Miss Brown murmured, her eyes still focused on the television.

“You say that, but how do you know?”

She sighed to herself and repeated the same reasoning as she always did, “Because if any of them wanted you back, they would’ve gone through that whole shebang again. You know the effort both sides put in to capture you? Your face was practically plastered on every corner of the Web!"

“There’s nothing stopping the Preceptors from coming back. They’re ruthless fiends...if they want to come back and slaughter every living being on this planet they will—”

“Don’t say—”

“And they’ll want to drag me into it.”

A silly advertisement was playing in the background, a jolly child laughing up a storm about individual cookie packets; a jarring contrast to the tense silence between Soloman and his friend.

“If they do, then don’t go with them!” She exclaimed, whipping her head around to Soloman whose face was still buried in his palms.

His reply was calm, yet stern, “You don’t understand,” he slowly lifted his head, letting his weary, vacant eyes meet with hers, “I _tried_ that. If they barged in right now they’d hold you to ransom until I complied with their orders! There’s nowhere I can run. Nowhere I can _hide._ ”

Miss Brown lowered her gaze and fiddled with a loose thread on her socks. She couldn’t bear to look at the bleak agony that made its home across Soloman’s face; the way he always looked one bad thought away from ending it all.

“Even if they never came back, I still have the memories,” he opened his hands and began flexing his fingers as though having never seen them before, “I still feel the blood on my hands, the feeling of veins struggling to let in air. I can still hear the rasp, gasping noises from their discoloured lips; the pleads they screamed; and the subsequent gurgling when it was all over…”

His roommate cringed and quickly wiped the thoughts from her mind, “But it’s over now. You’re not the same person you were back then...And...and I can attest to it!” She slapped the seat cushion. But just like the dull, transient sound that produced, Soloman was unfazed by her words.

“I’ll always be a killer...”

Miss Brown shook her head and groaned, “Who you were _then_ , is not representative of who you are _now_! I, of all people, would know because it was me who was assigned to your case, remember? You had a terrible scowl in the beginning, but with my help you mellowed! We—(she chuckled breathily to herself) we even had some fun together! Two people from opposing factions...no one would ever believe it. So what if it was a part of the Estrangement Programme? You didn’t _have_ to comply with it, but you did!...Don’t you understand?”

She scooted over to him, wrapping her arms around the hollow vessel that she called her best friend and resting them both back against the cushions, “You’re not a killer,” she whispered.

He slowly unclenched his fists and let his head drop upon her bosom. Between her fingers she teased his curly hair, hoping that the sensation—along with the ebb and flow of their breathing—would remind him that he was still alive. That he was still capable of being in control.

If there was one thing she knew about Soloman was that, in most cases, he was a man of few words. It wasn’t so much about _what_ he said, but more so the emotions conveyed behind the words. Occasionally she would catch him sitting on the floor beside his bed, blankly staring out the window like a lost soul, as though he was quietly longing for something. “I’m fine,” he’d say, but he was a terrible liar.

She mumbled his name, but he remained quiet. A strand of hair twisted off her index finger and she held him tight again. “I have my own way of dealing with problems,” was another one of his catchphrases, but this one was true. He’d speak again when he wanted to. In the meantime, they sat in silence: him, cuddled against her, and her, protecting him from himself.

The cooking show returned from another advertising break, but it was a completely different chef in a completely different set. Miss Brown’s eyes fluttered open and she let out a small yawn. Gosh, it had been hours since she had last eaten—even longer for Soloman, whom she hadn’t seen nibble all day.

She shook his arm gently (he had since returned to his previous sleeping position) and he mewled as he regained consciousness.

“You know what would cheer you up?” she beamed.

He rubbed his eyes, “Hmm? What?”

She repeated herself and received the same reply, “Your favourite—homemade cookies.”

Soloman lifted his brow and shot her a sardonic grimace, “Not from scratch, I hope. I’m sure you remember the last time—”

Miss Brown leaped to her feet and gripped her waist, “Me?” she huffed, “That was _you_ who almost burned the place down! Anyway, these are _pre-made_.”

They both shared a laugh. How such times were always cherished amongst them.

His face softened and his lips upturned into a small smile, “Thank you,”

She returned the gesture and skipped into the kitchen. Hm, maybe she _would_ try her hand at making these from scratch. Inspiration was in the air, as was spontaneity! She pulled out a small booklet from a drawer and dusted off the cover. “Let’s see…,” she said, flipping through the recipes, “Add three cups…”


End file.
